


All Fired Up, This Soul

by cherie_morte



Series: soulless-Sam-learns-to-love!Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 'we're working on the power of love', Hell Trauma, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Soulless Sam Winchester, Tortured Sam, Trauma, season 6 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 22:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11113866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherie_morte/pseuds/cherie_morte
Summary: Slowly but surely, Sam gets his soul back. That’s the easy part. (AU after 6x10 - Caged Heat)





	1. SAM

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of my 2011 fic originally posted [here](http://infatuated-ink.livejournal.com/74959.html).

Sam leans back in his chair; Dean tosses. His foot begins to shake, restless, bored; Dean turns. He’s not a peaceful sleeper. He never has been. He doesn’t make Sam miss it much.

Sam stands. Paces from one end of their crap motel room to the other. He could be doing something right now. Hunting. Fucking. Eating. Anything but watching some guy—his brother, he reminds himself, because that’s somehow supposed to matter—sleep. Sam could have walked to Alaska in the time he’s wasted like this since he found Dean.

Mistake, going to get him. He’s been no help. Too many feelings. Too many attachments. Too many expectations. And the sleeping—the sleeping is what’s going to do Sam in.

He sits back down in the same chair. He’s stuck to it, no matter how many times he tries convincing himself otherwise by walking in circles around their room. His eyes fix on Dean, just because there’s nothing else to look at.

Sam should leave. He can steal a car, go his own way, hunt and avoid Dean, Bobby, all these strangers with familiar faces who can’t appreciate what he’s capable of. But Dean won’t give up on this soul thing, and Sam needs to keep him in sight, make sure he blocks any and all attempts at getting it back.

Sam remembers the pain of being Sam Winchester about as vividly as he remembers the love he once felt for his brother. The soft touch of the carpet under his feet is more impressive. But he knows, he remembers, what it was like before that all went numb. It won’t be insignificant once Dean’s shoved his soul back in. It’ll be millions of times worse.

Sam won’t have it.

“Stop staring,” Dean murmurs.

“Oh, good, you’re up,” Sam answers.

“No.” Dean pulls the blankets over his head, attempting to hide from Sam. “But I can feel your creepy ass staring at me, and it’s not letting me sleep.”

“That makes two of us,” says Sam. “Might as well hit the road, then.”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“If you trust the clock.”

“I’m sleeping.”

“Awfully talkative for someone in the throes of slumber.”

“Fuck off,” Dean replies. It’s basically how he says goodnight.

Sam knows the moment he actually slips back out of consciousness. He memorized Dean’s breathing patterns long before he actually had a reason to be up watching his brother sleep, and, even now, the lullaby has a calming effect.

At least until Sam remembers he’s bored.

_______________________________________________________________

They’re on a vampire case in Minnesota a few days after the fight about whether to get Sam’s soul back or not. Dean’s been strung out since it happened, and Sam thought a good hunt might take the edge off. Make him stop tossing so much at night, so he won't snap at every word Sam says or treat him like a child who doesn’t know a bad fucking idea when he hears it.

Dean’s bound to get over it someday, Sam figures. After all, it’s just his brother’s soul, not really Dean’s problem. He’ll get used to it.

The hunt doesn’t flesh out the way Sam was hoping, though. 

“Don’t,” Dean snaps before Sam even gets a chance to shoot.

It’s all he ever says these days.

“Why not?” If he was in Dean’s shoes, he wouldn’t trust Sam around vampires for more than a minute. Sam would want this one dead as soon as possible, without anyone getting a chance to turn.

“Because I said so.”

Sam rolls his eyes, wonders why he even bothered asking. “I had a clear shot.”

“You had a clear shot—assuming it’s okay if you _accidentally shoot the girl instead of the vamp_.”

“I never miss anymore. I’m a better hunter than you now, and you know it.”

“You’re not better at anything, Sam. Hunters don’t kill innocent people.”

“She’s just going to turn into a vampire, too, if we don’t gun him. Then we’ll have to kill her anyway.” Sam raises the crossbow, dead man's blood-tipped arrow in position, and Dean sticks a hand out to push it down.

“Give me that, Sam. I don’t know why I thought I could trust you with it.”

“Something about months of obeying your bullshit instructions for no other reason than _because you said so_?”

“Yeah, well, I obviously overestimated you.”

He snatches the weapon away and gives Sam a nasty look. Then he turns to search out a new place to attack from, assuming Sam will follow. Sam doesn’t really remember why he agreed to this in the first place.

He’s been nothing but loyal for months: hasn’t screwed up on a job or done anything to offend Dean’s overdeveloped moral code. Dean still won’t treat him like a person. He’s going to hate Sam as long as he isn’t his brother, and Sam’s dead set on making sure that’s forever.

_______________________________________________________________

“Would you relax?” Sam snaps.

Dean struggles away from him, then realizes he’s only hurting himself and moves back into place. “Don’t like you touching me,” he says.

“Yeah, well, unless you want to sew your own ass up...” Dean starts under Sam’s hands. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me shoot him.”

“Just fucking focus and stop getting handsy.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Dean. I’m not that desperate, and you’re not all that great.”

It’s a lie. Sam’s taking plenty of pleasure in the compromising position, in Dean’s soft, pretty flesh, and the frustrated groans his brother occasionally lets out. Dean doesn’t need to know that.

“Unless you want me to help you out with that obvious problem you have going on there,” Sam adds after a minute or so, when he figures out exactly why Dean is angling himself the way he is. “Bet you’re thinking of all those times I had my mouth here instead of my hands.”

“Are you done closing it up or not?” Dean snaps, voice strung tight.

Sam laughs and gives him a smack, knowing the stitches will tug at Dean’s skin uncomfortably. “All good to go, your highness.”

Dean shoots him a hot glare before hurrying into the bathroom and slamming the door.

_______________________________________________________________

“Coffee?” Sam offers as soon as Dean shows some signs of being alive.

He rolls over, and Sam holds it out to him—black with just the right amount of sugar. Dean’s eyes go comically round, and he looks down at the simple paper cup as if it’s magical, then up at Sam. “You got me coffee?” he asks, voice warm and scratchy with sleep.

“Yeah,” Sam answers. He was up, he was bored, and he remembers years and years of doing this for Dean, feeling a giddiness Sam no longer understands imagining the way Dean was going to react to the wake-up call. “That’s what I do, right?”

Dean’s smile slips off his face. He looks back down at the coffee, but the light has all died out of him, and the face he’s aiming at the drink he’d been so excited about makes Sam feel like he just served his brother a steaming cup of mud. Which is a kind of awesome idea, he thinks, filing it away for next time.

“That’s why you did it, huh? Because it’s what you do?”

“Sure,” Sam says. “I’m supposed to be doing what you want, right?”

Dean takes a sip, shakes his head. “You know what, Sam? Don’t do this one again, okay?”

“Is it bad? I can go somewhere else next time.”

Dean takes another, longer sip. “No, it’s great,” he admits. “Thanks.” Sam is about to ask, and Dean sets the cup aside. “But don’t do it.”

He doesn’t touch it again. _Winchesters,_ Sam thinks with a roll of his eyes.

_______________________________________________________________

“Sammy,” Dean moans, writhing in a way that makes Sam sit up straighter.

It’s nothing he’s not used to, hearing Dean speak…not to him. Never Sam. Always Sammy. But Sam figures a fuck is a fuck, and Dean’s not dreaming about anything innocent.

He climbs onto the bed and positions Dean on his back, moving between his brother’s legs. He slides one hand down Dean’s body, grips him—hot, hard flesh under all those covers—and Dean sighs. When Sam kisses, Dean kisses back, thrusts up into his hand.

Sam thinks they’re having a pretty nice time, so he doesn’t see the hit coming at all. He rolls off Dean, hands immediately moving to trace the sore skin around his eye where Dean punched him.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Dean snaps, as if _Sam’s_ the one who just attacked.

“I was trying to get you off, asshole.”

“Don’t,” Dean says. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Sam laughs. “Come on, man. I told you I have all my memories, you can’t really play blushing virgin with me.”

“I’m not trying to.”

Sam smiles, trying to kiss Dean again, and Dean shoves him away.

“Then what’s the problem?” he asks.

“You are,” Dean answers, venom in his tone.

Sam reaches for Dean’s dick again, still rock hard, and, despite his complaints, he grinds into Sam’s fist on instinct. “Come on, Dean, I know you want me.” He licks at his brother’s skin, and Dean shivers. “Want you, too. May not remember anything else right, but I remember this.”

Ever since he came back from Hell, especially since he’s been living with Dean again, he’s ached for his brother. It may have started with love—a million years ago when Sam was someone else, and Dean was everything—but now it’s written into his bones. Sam knows there’s no amount of sex that’ll satisfy him the way finally getting to fuck Dean again will. And Sam could use something to get excited about with the way life’s been going lately.

“Don’t…” Dean gasps. “Please, don’t.”

Sam pauses, looks closely at Dean’s face. “But you want it.”

“Yeah, but…” He swallows, looks away. “No.”

He doesn’t mean it, not all the way. Just enough to make Sam stop. He backs down, returns to his own bed, his own hand, which is really all the mattress is good for. Dean’s breathing stays erratic for an hour, but he doesn’t let himself come. Not until he finally falls asleep and goes back to _Sammy_.

_______________________________________________________________

“Thank you,” Dean says first thing the next morning.

Sam feels his eyebrows draw in. “For?”

“You could have made me,” Dean says. “I thought you were going to.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I can get laid without forcing you, you know.”

“Yeah, the image is still seared into my brain.” Dean bites his lips. “But you kind of had no reason not to, either.”

Sam stops to think on it. It’s true—he could have gone through with it, it wouldn’t have bothered _him_ if Dean was hurt by it. It occurs to him that he should have done it; he would have gotten what he wanted. Sam’s even a little shocked he did stop, wonders what it means.

Dean clears his throat. “I’ve been pretty shitty to you.”

“It’s alright,” Sam says, shrugging. “It’s not like it’s hurting my feelings.”

“No, I guess not.” He pauses, then nods. “But that’s not the point.”

“What’s the point?”

“You’re not my brother, and I don’t like you.”

“Right.”

“And…you’re not human. Not a person, really.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“But you…it’s not your fault.”

Sam tilts his head.

“I’ve been hating you this whole time,” Dean continues. “Treating you like shit. Even getting a little enjoyment out of it, because you’re pretending and you’re not even close and it hurts. But it’s not your fault Sam’s stuck down there, you don’t know better than…I guess I’m trying to apologize here, okay?”

“Umm, sure?” Sam laughs. “I hope this is really helping you get the guilt off your shoulders, because it’s not doing anything for me.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean looks away. “And I appreciate that you’re telling me that. Just, I’ll promise to be nicer if you’ll promise not to pretend, okay? You’re not him. I hate it when you try to be.”

“Sure,” says Sam. “Will you promise not to try and get my soul back?”

Dean scowls. “No.”

“Will you let me fuck you?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Sam sits back. “Well, whatever then.”

_______________________________________________________________

Sam comes home from a day at the library—research is the only thing Dean trusts him to do on his own, though whatever pathetic interest he’d once had in it has been squashed—to find Dean watching television, sitting with a beer in his lap, smiling at what Sam immediately identifies as the shower scene from _Porky’s_.

He grabs a bottle out of the pack on the table and motions for Dean to make room on the couch. Dean lifts an eyebrow as he scoots.

Sam spends maybe ten minutes watching, laughing occasionally, before Dean turns to him.

“You don’t like this movie,” he accuses. “It offends your delicate sensibilities, remember? You used to call me and Dad pigs every time it was on. _‘It objectifies women, Dean.’_ ”

“I do remember,” Sam says. “But I don’t really have any sensibilities left, now do I?”

Dean looks down at his drink, knocks it against his knee a few times. “Right. Of course.” He waits a few seconds, then stands. “I’m going to bed.”

“But your favorite part hasn—” 

“Not in the mood,” Dean answers.

Sam watches him go, weirdly put out by it, and turns back to the screen.

_______________________________________________________________

Breakfast is a business arrangement between them now.

It used to be his favorite part of the day, but now he has to wonder what about eating in the morning was so special. Dean makes eggs, mediocre at best, and occasionally bacon, if they get comfortable enough in a motel. Sam sets the table, pours drinks. The sun streams in, bright and happy and a little out of place between them.

Once upon a time, this was when they laughed. This was when they talked about things other than their hunts or the problems of Apocalypse. This was when Sam would creep up behind his brother, hands wrapping around waist, lips kissing Dean’s throat too slowly to be worth the trouble of bending his neck.

It’s not bad this way. They work well together, and it beats the shit out of how things were going for a few months there. Dean blocking his path just for the sake of inefficiency, just to bother Sam the one way he actually could. Dean glaring at him from across the table—which hadn’t bothered Sam much, except that the one thing his brother really has going for him is his looks, and the scowl never fit his features.

Now Dean sets aside the cream and sugar Sam will need when he’s standing in their way. They exchange tidbits of conversation, ‘how about this weather?’ and guesses about the hunts they’re on. The food turns out better because it’s made without bitterness, no burnt edges just because they’ll taste worse. They get in, they eat, they get out, and they get things done.

Sam could go on like that indefinitely.

_______________________________________________________________

The shifter is huddled by a group of kids, using them as human shields. He thinks they won’t strike, won’t take the chance. Sam pulls out his silver knife and gets ready to throw it, because the monster’s taller than them by a foot, and Sam knows he won’t miss.

“Sam,” Dean says.

“Okay, before you say it, I promise I know what I’m doing.”

“They’re kids.”

“He’s about to kill one.”

“But what if you…” Dean closes his eyes and nods slowly. “You never miss.”

“Not lately.”

“Alright,” he says. “Hurt one of them and I’ll kick your ass, but do it.”

Sam downs the monster in a matter of seconds.

_______________________________________________________________

“Here’s to us,” Sam says, raising his shot glass.

“For what?”

“We finished a hunt successfully without pissing each other off once. So. A toast?”

Dean looks around a little guiltily, picks up his own glass, which is already empty, and clinks it against Sam’s just for effect. “Sure, yeah.”

They have a few more drinks, just enough to loosen up. Dean never gets drunk with Sam, though he’s got no reservations about doing it alone. The conversation goes light, amusing even, now that Dean’s not shutting it down just because he can.

“When was the last time you got laid, man?” Sam finally asks, because he has an agenda and the slimmest chance Dean will be drunk enough to fold. “Was it Lisa?”

Dean sits back against his bed. “What’s it to you, Tin Man?”

“It just seems impractical,” he says. “You must be dying. I mean, it’s only been a few weeks for me, and I’m dying.”

“This is a really awkward conversation,” Dean says—as if they haven’t been fucking for the last ten years.

“You should just let me fuck you,” Sam says. “Or blow you. Or…anything. I promise I’ll make it good.”

“Don’t ask me that, man.”

“Why not?”

Dean looks over at him, lips thin. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Yeah, but you won’t,” he snaps, though he immediately looks guilty about it. “Sorry, it’s just…”

He reaches for another shot and smiles at Sam in a way that makes all of his blood migrate south. Sam thinks he’s actually going to get lucky.

“Yeah?” Sam asks, crawling towards Dean’s side of the room.

“You can go out, you know, I’m not going to stop you.” He swallows hard, as if the words are burning his throat more than the liquor. “You should. Find a bar, first creepy chick who bats an eye, have a party. You did a good job today, and it’s not like you’ll have trouble waking up tomorrow.”

Sam sits back, disappointed. “Yeah, alright. Beats the hell out of fucking my hand.”

_______________________________________________________________

Dean walks into the bar nearest to their motel about twenty minutes after Sam, and Sam considers going up to him, saying something. He decides against it. Dean would have come with him if he wanted Sam around.

Sam’s not really sure if he’s trying to be considerate or petty, not really sure why he’d go out of his way to be either, but something drives him back out the door. He takes the Impala, which Dean offered him as some kind of consolation prize for not getting into his pants, and drives farther from home base, finds a sleazier bar with a much less selective clientele. It’s not twenty minutes before he’s in the back seat of the car again, some nameless slut under him.

She unhooks her bra, huge, gorgeous tits spilling out, right into Sam’s hands. Her legs are wrapped tight around him, and she pulls her hips up to grind against his dick. She’s starving for him, and Sam is just plain starving.

He leans down to kiss her, his hands beginning to work the leather on his belt, but he pauses and pulls back as soon as their lips meet.

“What’s wrong, sugar?” she asks in a deep, ugly voice that makes it sound like she’s been smoking since she was eight.

Sam shakes his head. What the fuck does he care what she sounds like? She’s begging for him. “Nothing,” he says, leaning back down.

But there it is again, as soon as his tongue slides against hers. The familiar mixture of cheap alcohol, cheap lipstick, and cheap thrills. Everything good in his life since he got back from Hell. It doesn’t taste right.

“Come on, baby, no one likes a tease.” She cups Sam through his jeans and smiles. “Thank God, I thought you were broken for a moment there. The best looking ones are sometimes.”

Sam’s not really listening to her. “Right, yeah,” he agrees uninterestedly.

“Are you cramped or something? We can move around if you want.” She leans close and whispers against his ear, but not into it, no little bite at the shell the way Dean used to do when they still…

_Dean,_ Sam thinks.

He smiles at the girl wickedly, and she lights up. He grabs her hips and turns her over, ready to close his eyes and imagine his brother, and, yeah. He’s gonna enjoy this after all.

It’s not the first time he thinks of Dean while he fucks, has been doing it pretty regularly for the last year and a half. It’s the first time it doesn’t work.

He lifts himself off her and snatches his hands back. “You should go.”

“What?” she asks, turning a little. The light filtering in from the bar’s parking lot is harsh, and Sam sees her sloppy make-up, the degraded way she’s only halfway out of her clothes, the desperation in her eyes.

It doesn’t turn him on right now; it almost makes him sad. Or, not sad. Sam doesn’t know what sad is. But he thinks, probably, it might feel a little bit like this.

“You should go,” Sam says a second time, firmer. Convinced.

“I thought we were gonna—”

“And not back to the bar,” he adds. “Somewhere better.”

She gives him a nasty look and grabs her clothes, slipping on the essentials. “Yeah, thanks for nothing, asshole."

_______________________________________________________________

He drives back to the motel, hoping Dean’s home. He probably is, the way he’s been lately. Hung up on Lisa and Sammy, no chance he’s getting any. And Sam…Sam’s glad for it. Not because he’s upset with Dean. He doesn’t know why.

He thinks of his brother, back in their room, a little drunker and a little sadder. He could use some company. He doesn’t seem to mind Sam’s as much lately, tells the kind of jokes Sam knows he would have scowled at in another life, but which now make him laugh so hard his sides hurt.

If Sam’s being honest, he likes Dean’s company, too, and he feels oddly light thinking of how they’ll spend the night. Watching TV, same old. Dean will let him sit beside him; they’ll make commentary, and Dean might even smile, and it will be fun.

But Dean is not alone when Sam gets back. Dean is not nodding off in front of the television. He’s not wondering when Sam will walk in. He’s on all fours, some guy behind him. The guy has long brown hair and a soft body and he’s making Dean moan out on every thrust, but Dean’s eyes are closed so tight Sam can see the lines from outside the window. He swats the other man’s hand away, strokes himself exactly how Sam would, if Dean would give him a chance.

It’s pretty pathetic, as replacement sex goes, and Sam has to wonder how the hell this is better than just letting Sam do it. Sam may not be 100%, but he’s definitely closer to what Dean’s aiming for.

The guy says something, and it carries through the thin motel walls, a warning that he’s close. Dean nods, speeds his hand up and comes only a few seconds after the man behind him. His moan is loud and shameless, and, of course, Sammy’s name.

“My name’s Jack,” the guy says, as if it matters.

“All the more reason it’s time for you to get the fuck out of here,” Dean grits out, staying on his hands and knees instead of looking at the guy.

It bothers Sam. Not just because he imposed celibacy on himself only to come home and find Dean decided to spend his night having sex. It’s something else. Sam recognizes it, but he can’t touch it. An itch—right in the middle of his back. He’ll never reach it, and it’ll just bother him more and more until he scratches it.

Sam wonders if it’s too late to drive back to the bar and find another girl. It’s not, but it’s definitely too late to want to. He sighs.

Sam watches the man dress quickly, open the door, and meets him face-to-face as he turns to go. Jack pauses when their eyes meet, caught red-handed, and bites his lip. “I’m guessing you’re Sammy,” he says.

Sam shakes his head. “No. Just Sam.”

_______________________________________________________________

“You must’ve had a good night, huh?” Dean asks, smirking at him from across a row of washers. “Didn’t come home before I passed out.”

“Drove around for a few hours,” says Sam.

“That what you kids are calling it these days?”

Sam copies Dean’s naughty smile, because for some reason the idea of letting Dean know that he’s telling the truth makes his stomach hurt. “Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell, Dean.”

“I don’t see any gentleman here,” he answers. Then he looks around and lowers his voice. “Unless you mean them?”

He inclines his head at the two old ladies gossiping in the corner, and Sam has to cover his mouth to fight the laughter.

“Dean,” he hisses.

Dean gives him a curious look. “You don’t mind pissing off the rogue angels, but God forbid the blue-haired grandmas at the laundromat get their feelings hurt?”

Sam doesn’t want to give it much thought. 

“What’s gotten into you, Vadar?”

“Just tired. Had a long night.”

“I thought you don’t get tired,” Dean says.

It’s true, Sam doesn’t. But that isn’t the kind of tired he’s talking about. “I don’t sleep. Doesn’t mean I don’t get tired.”

“That sucks,” Dean says, actually sounding a little sorry, which feels…nice, maybe.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Dean stops following the circles of the dryer with his eyes, a habit he always used to deny when Sam teased him for it, but which has remained ingrained since he was a kid, and walks over to the soda machine at the other side of the room.

He smiles at the old ladies as he passes, asks how their day’s been and offers them something from the machine, flirting shamelessly. Sam watches, completely lost. He knows Dean wants nothing from them. They smile back, bat their eyelashes, and politely refuse his offer, which makes Dean press his hand to his chest and say something about how they’re breaking his heart. Sam finds himself smiling for no reason, raises his fingers to his lips to touch it.

Dean brings Sam back a soda, offers it wordlessly.

“Thanks?” Sam says, studying the drops beading along the red and white letters instead of what it means that his heart is speeding up.

“Don’t mention it,” Dean says. “Don’t actually know if caffeine works on you, but it’s worth trying, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, not caring that it won’t help. Sam’s pretty sure it’ll be the best soda he’s tasted in years, anyway.

Sam swallows down the last few drops as their dryers slow to a halt, and they each take one machine, tossing whites on one folding table, blues, greens, and browns on the other. Sam begins to fold his half, can feel Dean’s eyes on him as he does it.

“What?” he asks, annoyed.

“No, nothing,” Dean answers, looking back down at his own pile. “My brother used to fold his clothes like that.”

The irony is, apparently, entirely lost on Dean, who sets about his task without much more to Sam in the way of conversation. Sam wants to hit him or grab him close and shake him and force him to see that he’s Dean’s brother, too.

_______________________________________________________________

Sam is watching Dean sleep. It’s getting to be a bad habit.

He doesn’t have to anymore. Dean trusts him to go out at night. He won’t get 30 missed calls, with voicemails asking where he is or what he’s doing or who he’s killing. In fact, Sam pretends some days, leaves just a bit before Dean wakes up so he doesn’t know Sam was watching.

Dean is always beautiful, but it’s better when he sleeps. He doesn’t give Sam nasty looks, he’s not on guard. Not peaceful, never peaceful, always tossing and turning and begging for someone Dean won’t get—won’t ever get, and it’s Sam’s fault.

He’s not peaceful, but he’s sweet, spending his time with someone he actually likes in his dreams. After a while, he calms, soothed by…Sam has no idea what. He digs back into his memory, tries to remember something important for Dean to dream about, but the moments that come to mind are stupid and insignificant, and Sam wonders why they pop up at all.

Dean doesn’t dream about the nights he read Sam stories or the hours they spent sharing a beer and the occasional kiss, pretending to know the first thing about the stars they were looking at. Dean must have things to dream about that matter. But if Sam could dream, he would want it to be about those things.

Dean leaves space in his bed; Sam thinks of slipping into it, brushing a hand up his brother’s side. Dean would hate him, even if he never found out. Dean hates him anyway, Sam reminds himself, but he still resists. Sam wants…Sam wants Dean to want him—not just to fuck, but to lie behind him so Sam can better hear the gentle, memorized music of his unconscious exhalations. 

Dean breathes fourteen times per minute while he’s asleep, though every four and a half minutes or so, an odd breath will throw it off: a quick, almost-snorting sound that makes Sam’s chest ache. Sam is safe when Dean is breathing like this.

He looks at the clock by the bedside, 9:45 a.m. Dean should be up within the half hour, and Sam suddenly decides, despite what Dean told him, he must get his brother coffee before he’s awake. He slips out of the room and back just in time to find Dean still rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

“Coffee?”

“Sam, I thought I told you not to—”

“I wanted to.” Sam says it almost in a questioning tone, because…he doesn’t really get it either. He clears his throat, not wanting Dean to realize something, something Sam doesn’t understand even though it’s inside of him. He misses the days when he could say exactly what he meant and not care who heard it. “Anyway, the coffee is right here waiting for you, and it’s not like you’re going to turn it down, so drink it already.”

Dean reaches out to take it from Sam. Sam would swear there’s static electricity when their fingers brush.

_______________________________________________________________

“Everything in this diner is stale,” Sam says. “The coffee in this diner is stale.”

“Stop bitching,” Dean replies, mouth full. There are at least three strips of bacon shoved in there. It’s really pretty disgusting.

“So, how is the search for my soul going?” Sam asks casually.

Dean stops chewing and stabs his eggs as if they offended him personally. “You suck at small talk.”

“I was just wondering.”

“Just trying to see if I’m stupid enough to tell you? So you can get in the way?”

“No, Dean, it’s not that at all.”

“Well, don’t you worry your pretty, not-so-little head about it.”

“I’m not, really.”

Dean frowns, misreading the easiness in Sam’s tone. “I guess you know, then. I’ve got nothing. Bobby’s got nothing. No one’s got anything—” Dean’s voice wavers. “You win, alright? Happy?”

“I don’t know if I can feel happy,” Sam answers.

It’s apparently the wrong thing to say.

Dean shoves his plate away. “Great, you’ve fucked up breakfast. What’s the next stop? You can gloat in the car as we drive to the next town, that’ll be fun, right?”

“I don’t want to gloat,” Sam replies defensively. “You’re just assuming the worst of me. I thought we were…forget it.”

“You want it back?” Dean asks.

“No,” Sam replies. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to fail, Dean. But I’m not wishing you luck.”

“You’re weird lately,” Dean says after what feels like an eternity.

“I know.”

Dean nods, grudgingly spears some hash browns onto his fork.

“Something wrong with your food, hon?” the waitress asks, coming over to study Dean. He turns from the potatoes and looks her over. She’s cute, nothing special, a little older than Dean but well taken care of.

“No, ma’am,” he replies, drawing it out. “I was just trying to attract your attention.” He winks at her in a way that lacks all subtlety, and she laughs, brushing it off easily. Dean doesn’t seem to mind one way or the other.

Sam does mind, feels his face contort without his permission, kicks his brother under the table. Dean looks up at him, smiling in a way he hasn’t in weeks.

“Don’t make that sour lemon face at me, Samm—” He cuts off before he deals the death blow, but the damage is done, written all over Dean’s face.

He doesn’t say another word during breakfast, and, as soon as they’ve found a place to settle in the town, Dean and the Impala immediately disappear.

_______________________________________________________________

Sam doesn’t let the day go to waste. He cruises through the preliminary steps of their hunt, reads the relevant newspaper articles, interviews a few people, google searches some possible explanations for the missing persons cases. He calls Dean between each stop, leaves no messages, and pretends to be less worried than he is.

Dean doesn’t come home until after dark, when Sam’s long since given up on getting more work done and has resorted to sitting in their room, staring at the door.

He stumbles through the entrance, and Sam’s first thought is that he’s impressed Dean made it home at all. Dean’s no stranger to driving compromised. Drunk, bleeding, Sam’s mouth in his lap—Dean is a better driver than most no matter what. It’s no surprise, he certainly has enough experience. But this, this is too drunk, even for Dean. This is just asking to get killed.

Sam tries to murder that thought before it has time to take root.

“Dean?”

“Sam,” he says, smiling vapidly. “Hello there, Sam.”

“Jesus, dude, what did you drink?”

“Some of this,” Dean says, raising one hand. “Some of that.” He raises the other. “A whole lot of everything else.” He laughs hysterically. “You name it, I probably had at least four shots of it.”

“And there’s something to be proud of,” Sam answers, steadying his brother with one hand on his shoulder, the other patting him on the back.

“Proud,” Dean says, trying the word out. “Proud. I’m proud of you.”

“No, you’re not, Dean, you’re drunk.”

“No, I am. You saved the world.” Dean pets Sam’s head indulgently. “Good Sam, that’s a very good Sam.”

“Great, thanks man. Let’s get you to bed, okay?”

“The whole world,” Dean continues, taking a wobbly step in the direction Sam ushers him. “That’s a big world.”

“Yeah, okay, you’re welcome.”

“No, I’m not—” He shakes his head. “I wish you’d never done it.”

“Dean, shut up.”

“Proud but not happy.”

Sam pushes him a little as they reach the bed, and Dean falls easily.

“Goodnight, Dean.” Dean grabs him and pulls him in by his shirt until Sam has no choice but to sit on the bed by Dean’s pillow. “What?”

“I love you,” he says. “I love you. I don’t think I’ve ever actually said that to you, but I do.”

“You—”

“No, I know you know. But you should know because I told you, not just ‘cause you know, you know? I think you do know.”

“Sure, Dean, go to bed, all right?”

He reaches up, runs a finger softly along Sam’s jaw, and Sam can’t help closing his eyes, leaning into it. It’s not for him. He’ll take it.

Sam doesn’t see the moment Dean changes his mind, stops touching and decides to pull him in for a long, languid kiss instead. Dean sobs into Sam’s mouth, tastes like he literally tried something from every bottle in whatever dive bar he ended up in all day. He was certainly gone long enough. Sam returns it just as long as he needs to before he shoves Dean away.

“Don’t,” Sam warns.

Dean smiles, tugs at Sam’s shirt insistently. “Come on, Sammy. Lots of room for you. Want you to sleep with me.”

“You don’t.”

“Sammy, please,” Dean whispers.

“I’m not him,” Sam says, voice breaking, eyes overflowing, dirty, sharp metal impaling his heart, rubbing it in gravel and dirt, and laughing at the infection. “I’m not him, Dean,” he continues, almost hysterical. “I wish I was, but I’m not.”

“Close enough,” Dean murmurs. 

His eyes are lidded and his face is relaxed for the first time Sam can remember. He tugs one more time without much force, which is the reason Sam can’t help himself from climbing in, wrapping around Dean, burying his face in his brother’s neck, and hoping it’ll somehow make him stop hurting.

Dean drops off in minutes, back into that gentle pattern Sam knows too well for Dean to fake.

Sam’s body feels like it weighs 800 pounds.

He breathes in deep, trying to match Dean’s rhythm.

Sam is suddenly very, very sleepy.


	2. DEAN

Dean wakes up first. It’s not status quo by any stretch, but it’s nothing revolutionary. Sam is almost always the early bird, but on days like this, when Dean has a well deserved pounding in his head, it’s not so weird that he can’t sleep.

He stops. Thinks about it. Looks over at his brother. Sam. Sleeping next to him. Dean’s little brother, arm around his waist, lips resting against his neck, same as always for what feels like forever.

But not lately. Not since…

He hardly has time to reach for the motel waste basket before he’s throwing up everything he’s ever consumed. Once, twice, and then a few more times just for good measure.

Sam doesn’t wake up, doesn’t stir.

Dean stumbles out of bed as soon as he can manage it, finds his feet, and takes a defensive pose as he faces his sleeping brother. “Are you faking it?” he asks, voice soft. A whisper. _Don’t wake him up, he’ll never go back to sleep._

There’s no answer, except for sheets rustling with Sam’s shallow breath.

“I’ll fucking kill you if you’re faking it,” he adds, louder this time, conversational. But he means it.

Sam doesn’t respond, and Dean finds himself clutching the toilet half a minute later, something entirely different from the alcohol bringing the bile out of him. This isn’t possible, and, when he wakes up from this, he’s going mad.

Sam’s where Dean left him when he comes back to the room, teeth brushed, water splashed on his face—Dean is still seeing things. He takes a seat by his brother and can’t help shaking him, waking him up; he has to know.

He can touch Sam, solid flesh.

Sam freezes as soon as Dean’s wake-up call registers. His eyes shoot open, dart around the room, but when Dean tries to lean into his field of vision, he shuts them tight, turns his head away quick as a whip.

“Sammy?”

“Go away,” he says.

“Sam, it’s…”

“Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.” 

Dean doesn’t know what he’s supposed to stop. He reaches out, steadies a hand on Sam’s face, tries to turn him back in his direction. “Sam, it’s okay. You’re okay. It’s Dean, Sam.”

“I hate you,” Sam says. “Leave me alone.”

Dean shakes his head, doesn’t let it sink in. Sam doesn’t mean it; he’s just confused. Sam doesn’t mean it, he tells himself, over and over, believing it because he has to.

Sam takes a few gasping breaths and grabs at the blankets surrounding him, sits up and looks around the room, but he flinches when he reaches Dean, eyes shut again before he gets a chance to see him. He pulls his legs up to his chest and hides his face against them, rocking slightly.

Dean tries reaching out to soothe him, expects Sam to recoil, but he stills under the touch. “Okay?” Dean asks.

Sam spreads back out on the bed, burrowing under the covers. “You play dirty, I don’t like you.”

“What, Sam?”

“You play dirty,” he says. “Go get your brother. Please, I can’t again. I’m tired. Please, I’m so tired.”

Dean can imagine, considering Sam’s body hasn’t slept more than however many hours he got last night in over a year. Dean strokes a hand over the bit of Sam’s head poking out over the blanket and presses a kiss against his temple. Sam whimpers.

“Go to sleep, Sammy. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He pulls a chair up to his brother’s bedside and vows to sit right there until Sam is ready to rouse—even if it takes months. He falls asleep later that night, awakens after eight hours, and Sam is still sleeping. It goes on for three days.

_______________________________________________________________

Sam gets up at some point in the night, begins moving through the room like a ghost. Dean is asleep, but he hears the rustling after a while. Once he looks around, it’s obvious Sam’s been everywhere: kitchen, bathroom; he’s done everything he needs to do and is sitting on the floor by his bed, staring out at nothing.

Dean stands and kneels next to him, taking Sam’s hand. Sam turns his face away. “Hey, Sammy, you awake now?”

Sam laughs at him.

“You hungry?”

He shakes his head.

“You still tired? Want me to help you get back in bed?”

Another shake of his head, but his face stays turned away. Dean suddenly gets the irrational need to see his brother, and he tries to turn his face towards him. Sam lets Dean’s hand guide him, but his eyes are clenched shut.

“Hey, look at me.”

Sam sneers, doesn’t open his eyes.

“Please?”

He tries to push Dean away then, violent reaction followed by a wounded noise when Dean lets out a surprised cry. He sits on his bed and lies down, his back to Dean.

_It’s better,_ Dean tells himself. Better than when Sam was in the pit suffering. This is better for Sam, no matter how miserable he seems. And Dean just has to think of what Sam was like when he first showed up in Lisa’s garage—yeah, it’s better for Dean, too. But that was so much easier to see than this. His brother, really his brother this time, and all the hurt he’s feeling because Dean couldn’t get him out fast enough.

It’s no wonder Sam hates him now. Dean deserves it.

“Alright, Sam,” he says. “I won’t try again, I promise.”

Sam makes a guttural sound.

_______________________________________________________________

Sam watches TV and cooks, can clean himself and dress and seems okay on first glance. He hasn’t uttered a word since the first morning, and he still won’t look at Dean. It causes Sam so much distress when Dean tries to get him to open his eyes that he finally gives up trying.

After a few days inside, Dean thinks maybe Sam just needs to get out, so he takes him to the diner down the road for a test run.

Sam stares at his menu. When the waitress asks him what he wants, he says nothing. Dean orders, hoping to buy him time, and waits for Sam again after.

“Should I come back?” the waitress asks.

Dean is about to say yes, but Sam grabs his wrist and squeezes it.

“What, Sammy?”

Sam presses his finger onto the menu, and Dean reads over the description. He smiles and orders for Sam, glad to finally be able to do something for his brother. Sam lifts his head from the menu, smiling too, but his damn eyes are still closed. It’s only when he looks at Dean. It could be so much worse; Dean has a lot to be thankful for. He’s got no right to feel sorry for himself.

They go right back to the motel after they eat, because Sam's cagey and making upset sounds, and he won't leave the room again after that. Dean spends most of the time they’re on lockdown doing research, trying to find some kind of ritual he could have accidentally stumbled into to get his brother’s soul back. Of course, he comes up with a remarkable pile of nothing.

Calling Castiel seems like the obvious next step, so he does that for longer than he wants to admit. Every day he prays or calls Castiel’s old number, and there isn’t even a voice mail blowing him off to say the angel is hearing him. Dean’s on his own, and the only hope he has left is Bobby. Maybe Bobby did something without telling Dean—didn’t want to get his hopes up, just in case it didn’t work.

Of course it was Bobby.

So he reluctantly packs up their things one day and shoves them in the trunk. Sam freaks out until he sees the Impala, and then the noises and the scrambling for the motel die out into perfect calm. He doesn’t put up another complaint for hours, just sits and stares out of the passenger seat, humming along with music he usually bitches about. Dean doesn’t know if he loves it or hates it, rolls with it like he has everything else for the last few days.

“We’re gonna go see Bobby,” he tells Sam after a few hours of uncharacteristic silence. “You remember Bobby, right?”

Sam makes a sound, which could mean yes or no, and Dean won’t fucking know because he’s not a goddamn mind reader. He tells Sam as much. It doesn’t make much of an impact, but Dean feels a little better.

After a few hours, Sam starts fidgeting. Dean’s been driving so long his eyes are starting to swim, just to keep Sam calm. He’s more than happy to jump on the chance to stretch his legs a little.

“What’s up, Sam?” he asks. “You hungry? Uncomfortable?”

Sam nods, eyes still trained away from Dean.

“Could you go for a piss? I could go for a piss.”

The sound Sam makes is almost a laugh, which is all Dean needs to keep going.

They pull over into one of those supermarket-restaurant hybrids you find if you drive long enough in the middle of nowhere. They take care of business and then head out into the store, where Sam starts grabbing shit off the shelf. It saves Dean the trouble of asking if he wants to sit down for dinner or just get snacks, at least.

There’s a long line, and Sam gets ancious pretty quickly. He starts making nervous noises and hides his face against Dean’s chest when he sees people staring at him. Dean soothes him as quietly as he can and turns to the first thing he sees to try and distract his brother.

“Doritos don’t make a full meal, Sammy,” Dean chastises, picking through the things Sam dumped into their cart. “No matter how many bags you buy.”

Sam obviously doesn’t answer, but Dean can feel the animosity pouring off of him, and that’s enough for now.

“Here, this’ll make it a healthy meal.” Dean digs the bag of Funyuns he’d dropped in out of the bottom and places them in Sam’s palm. Sam strokes a thumb over the picture on the front, makes a sad little sound. He stays mesmerized by the bag as Dean unloads the cart, until Dean hears him laugh unexpectedly and turns to find Sam looking down at his feet.

There’s a little girl pulling on his pant leg, and Sam kneels down to look at her, smiling the way he does when he sees dogs or ice cream cones or any of those other uncomplicatedly happy things you don’t get much of in Hell.

“Shelley, sweetie, leave the nice man alone,” the woman behind them in line says, reaching out for her daughter.

Sam lets the little girl take his hands and begin playing some version of patty cake with him. Sam laughs warmly and tries to keep up.

“It’s alright,” Dean says, smiling at the scene. “He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Which is a lie, of course, but Dean’s pretty sure no one is about to call him on it.

“No, of course not,” she says, returning the smile. “I just don’t want her bothering him.”

“He doesn’t look bothered.”

“What’s wrong with him?” she asks. Her face shows that she knows it came out wrong before Dean snaps at her.

“There’s nothing wrong with him. That’s the smartest man you’ll ever meet.”

“Of course,” she agrees, nodding at Dean apologetically. “There’s so much we can learn from them."

Dean sets his teeth too tight in his jaw. He’s tired of people treating his brother like an idiot, looking at him like he’s in denial when he insists otherwise. And, he gets it, the lady’s just trying to be nice. But if one more goddamn person tries that line on him, he’s going to snap. Dean is pretty sure it would be just as obnoxious if the assumptions she's making about Sam were even accurate.

He turns away from the mother, shoves money at the cashier, and drags Sam out with a bit too much force.

_______________________________________________________________

“Dean?” Bobby asks through the open slit in the door.

“In the flesh,” Dean answers. “Can we come in?”

Bobby shrugs and closes the door, sliding the chain and opening it all the way. Dean tugs Sam’s hand a little, and Sam moves forward obediently.

“You’re keeping him on an awful short leash these days,” Bobby says dryly.

“He’s back,” Dean says. “He’s got his soul.”

“What?” Bobby asks. “How’d you get it, boy?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Bobby shakes his head and turns his attention to Sam. A part of Dean thinks maybe Sam won’t look at him, either. Maybe it’s not just Dean. But Sam slowly blinks one eye open, then the other.

“Sam?” Bobby asks, obviously bracing himself for a handshake, a hug, something.

Sam grabs Dean’s arm and hides behind his body, head poking out to watch Bobby curiously.

“He…uh…?”

“I think so,” Dean answers. “Don’t really know yet. It’s only been about a week.”

“Well, shit. Come in,” Bobby says, leading the way. “Beer?”

“Something stronger?”

“After you tell me what the hell’s going on,” Bobby responds, leaning against his kitchen counter. “How’d it happen?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admits. “It just…” He shrugs. “I wake up one day, he’s out cold.”

“Nothing happened the night before that could have done it?”

Dean smiles sheepishly. “I, uh, don’t really remember,” he says. “Had a few drinks before—”

“Dammit, Dean! You _blacked out_ on how to rescue a soul from the deepest pit of Hell? It didn’t occur to you that, just maybe, that would be useful information? Especially considering how often you damn morons get stuck down there?”

Dean frowns, looks away. He’s not being entirely honest, but what he does remember isn’t useful. He’s not about to tell Bobby he grabbed Monster and called him Brother.

“I didn’t expect it to happen, man. No one left me a voice message.”

“Yeah, alright,” Bobby says grudgingly, waving a dismissive hand at Dean and finally ducking into the refrigerator for the beers he’d promised. “So what’s he like? Total mess?”

“He can hear you,” Dean points out. He pauses, scrubs a hand over his face and sighs, taking a long drink. “Sorry. Just. I think I should put him to bed and we’ll talk about it when I get back down, okay?”

Bobby nods and waits for Dean in the living room. He dives in immediately once he returns.

“He’s not as bad as I thought he’d be, I guess,” Dean starts. “Or at least, he doesn’t come off that way. He’s jittery, but he can do all the basic things for himself. He talked for a bit the first day, but it made no damn sense, and he’s done nothing but whimper since then. His nightmares are on an entirely new playing field. I’m pretty sure he’s hurting, but he won’t tell me.”

“Maybe he just needs time,” Bobby tries.

Dean scoffs and sits on the couch, eyes trained on his glass of whiskey instead of Bobby. It’s going to kill him to ask for help, to admit he may not be what Sam wants. “I don’t think it’s time he needs. I think it’s someone else.”

“Huh?”

“He lets me take care of him because he has to, but I don’t think he likes being near me. He won’t look at me, and…” Dean swallows hard. “I guess I just want you to try talking to him without me. See if you can get something out of him.”

“No way he’s talking to anyone if he’s not talking to—”

“Just try for me, okay?”

Bobby nods like he doesn’t like it, sets his bottle on his desk, and stands. He leaves the door slightly ajar as he enters so Dean can watch from the hallway. Sam’s sitting in bed, staring out like he tends to do when Dean isn’t distracting him.

“Hey, kid,” Bobby says gently.

Sam’s head turns in his direction, smiling for a moment before his eyebrows draw in. He looks around, confused, and moves away from the side of the room Bobby’s occupying.

“Mind if I sit?”

Sam nods.

“Alright, fair enough.”

Sam opens his mouth like he wants to say something, and Dean’s heart folds in his chest. Selfishly, he wanted to be wrong about this. Serves him right.

“You, uh. You wanna talk about anything, Sam?”

Sam closes his mouth then, gives Bobby a dangerous look.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just thought I’d try.”

“Dean,” Sam says, his first word all over again. He starts fidgeting, and his voice goes up in pitch when he says it again. “Dean?”

“I figured as much,” Bobby answers, turning to the crack in the door Dean’s looking through. “Idjit.”

Dean pushes it so that he can walk in, and Sam of course closes his eyes as soon as he senses Dean approaching.

“Dean?”

Dean kneels in front of him, putting one hand on his knee; Sam’s anxious movements stop immediately. “Yeah, Sammy, I’m here.”

“Don’t leave me alone with them,” he says.

Dean knows better than to ask who. “I won’t, Sam. It’s okay. I won’t leave you again.”

Sam’s lips tremble for half a second, then he stills them, nods, and says nothing more.

_______________________________________________________________

Later that night, Sam is sleeping, head on Dean’s thigh, and Dean’s running his fingers through his brother’s hair absently. The TV flickers on Sam’s face, and, in the soft glow, he looks happy. He’s not tossing and turning like he usually does asleep, which Dean really wants to take a little credit for.

“You know what we have to do, right?” Bobby asks reluctantly.

“Yeah,” Dean says. “That’s half the reason I came here. I’ve tried praying and it’s getting me jack, so I figured we have to summon the bastard.”

“Good,” Bobby says. “Thought I’d have to fight you on it.”

“I don’t like it,” Dean admits. “He’s not in good shape. But, at the same time, how are we going to know just how bad it is until we…?”

“Yeah,” Bobby agrees. “So tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

“First thing?”

Dean angles an apologetic look down at the man sleeping in his lap.

_______________________________________________________________

Castiel responds to the summon immediately, looking impressively annoyed. “What part of ‘fighting a war to control Heaven’ is so difficult to comprehend?”

Dean doesn’t say anything, just points at Sam. He’s staring out in that unsettling way he has now, and he’s acting like he still hasn’t realized he’s been tied up.

“Are you trying to establish just how much of his soul he doesn’t have?” Castiel asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I think he got it back,” Dean says.

“You think?”

“Yeah.”

“How can you not be sure if you somehow managed to wrestle your brother away from two of the strongest creatures in creation?”

“It just kinda…happened.”

Castiel looks unimpressed.

“Look, will you just do your weird fisty thing and tell me what’s wrong with him?”

“So there is something wrong?”

“Of course there’s something wrong, Cas. I need you to tell me what so I can fix it.”

Castiel sighs but walks towards Sam. Dean comes up behind him, puts a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder and leans down to whisper. “Okay, Sammy. This is gonna hurt a little, but we’re gonna make you all better.”

Sam says nothing. Dean gives his shoulder one last squeeze, then gets out of Castiel’s way and takes a seat across the room next to Bobby. Dean’s instinct is to look away. He doesn’t think he can watch the timid Sam he’s been taking care of for the last week hurt after he’s already had to suffer so much. He’s so damn scared now, untrusting except of Dean…and now Dean is feeding him to this. No way it ends well.

Castiel puts the leather strap in Sam’s mouth and wastes no time, slipping in, feeling for his soul.

Sam doesn’t even blink. Somehow, it’s worse than if he were crying out—Dean doesn’t want to think about how much pain Sam’s been subjected to for something like this to not even register.

Castiel pulls away, and Sam laughs, looks Castiel dead in the eye. “Come on, Lucille. I know you can do better than that,” he says, taunting the damn angel. Taunting the damn angel _he thinks is Lucifer_.

Dean stands, and Castiel meets him in the middle of the room.

“Well?”

“His soul has returned.”

“And?” Dean leads.

Castiel shrugs. “And intact.”

“Completely intact?”

“Whatever is wrong with your brother is not in his soul. I suspect it has more to do with his body no longer knowing how to deal with what his soul has seen, been subjected to...” He looks back at Sam, a little sad. “Apparently become used to.”

“But that’s good news, right?” Dean says. “If his soul is okay, he’ll get better.”

“I did not say it was okay. I said it was intact. I can only imagine how far from okay it is. I can only measure physical damage.”

“So he might…?”

“I don’t know, Dean. I wish I had something else to tell you.”

Dean dodges a look over at his brother, who is engaged in a staring contest with Bobby. He figures he’s safe to try asking about the only damn idea he’s got left. “What about my soul?”

“What about it, Dean?”

“The angels are still buying. I can make a deal, have them fix Sam. Selling to Heaven has to be better than selling to Hell—”

From the other side of the room, Sam lets out a blood chilling scream. Dean, Bobby, and Castiel all turn their attention to him, and Sam begins thrashing in the chair, voice still deafening.

They run to him, Dean loosening his hands, Castiel standing in front of him, trying to calm. As soon as he’s free, Sam launches forward, grabs the front of Castiel’s trench coat and begins shaking it, big eyes looking up at him.

“Not him,” he says. “Not him. Look, I’m right here. I’m right here.” Sam grabs Castiel’s hand and forces him to reach out. “Hurt me. Not him, you can’t hurt him. I didn’t look—you know I didn’t look. You can’t hurt him.”

Castiel tilts his head, but Dean freezes. Everything clicks into place. “Sammy, is that why you won’t look at me?”

“Not you,” he says, averting his gaze, turning back to Castiel with the same pleading face. “He’s not fair like you. You can play with me, I’m right here. Don’t let him, Lucifer, please. I didn’t look.”

“Sammy, I’m not Michael. You’re not there anymore. That’s Cas, okay? Everything’s better.”

Sam ignores him completely, fingers loosening on Castiel, but expression no less desperate. “I’ll do anything if you make him stop. Please, make him stop.”

“Dean, please stop,” Castiel says dutifully.

“Really not funny,” Dean says, turning to Castiel, but the angel’s already disappeared. “Fuck.”

“No,” Sam says. “No, no, no, no.”

“Sam, no one is hurting me. They never hurt me. It wasn’t real. I wasn’t down there with you, remember? They were just trying to upset you, Sammy.”

“Not real,” he says softly. “You’re not real.”

“I am,” Dean promises. “Sam, look at me, man. I promise.”

“Not real.”

“Alright, Sam, close your eyes,” Dean says, defeated. “I’m gonna take you up to bed.”

Sam does as he’s told, follows Dean blindly.

_______________________________________________________________

“I hate this movie,” Sam says as Dean flips through the channels and finally finds something decent to watch. “Change it.”

Dean picks up the remote, thinks about it, and sets it down on the table next to his side of the couch. Sam can’t glare at him without looking, but it’s implied, and his lip juts out enough for Dean to see it out of the corner of his eye. It’s Sam’s pout, the one he always saved for Dean—not the one that belongs to Michael and Lucifer. It’s the best he can do, and Dean is happy to take it.

“Deal with it, bitch.”

Sam almost smiles. “That…you sound so much like him sometimes.”

“I am him,” Dean insists. The routine is starting to wear thin.

“Yeah, of course you are,” Sam replies indulgently.

Dean sighs and tries to hand Sam the remote, but Sam refuses it. “He wouldn’t have changed it,” Sam tells him. “Do you want me to pretend or not?”

Dean doesn’t know the answer at this point, so he makes an effort to focus his attention on the TV. It only takes a few minutes for Sam to start dozing with his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean listens to him breathe more than to the television, and he doesn’t notice he’s drifting, too, until Sam starts crying next to him.

He sighs and shakes his brother awake. “Hey, Sammy. Come on. Bedtime.”

Sam pushes him, murmurs something about Dean not being him, and opens his eyes, only to close them again immediately.

“Don’t touch me,” Sam says. “You’re not—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m not Dean,” Dean says. “I get it.”

Sam frowns. “Stop it, that’s confusing.”

“Well, I fucking quit,” he answers. “What the hell do I have to do to convince you?”

Sam swallows. “Not fall apart the moment I look at you.”

“So look, Sammy. I’m right here. Just look at me, I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

Sam picks at lint on the couch. “I stopped falling for that one decades ago,” says Sam. “It’s not going to be that easy, not again.”

“Easy,” Dean scoffs. “Nothing’s easy.”

“It was easy…I was easy. But I’m not looking, I don’t care how much better you’ve gotten at acting like him.”

“Never gonna look at me again, Sammy? You really think that’s gonna work?”

“No.” Sam pulls his legs onto the couch and starts rocking, same as he does every time he feels threatened. “No, I always cave.” He fists his hands in his hair. “I always hurt him.”

“Sam, it wasn’t really me. They didn’t hurt me. They only hurt you.”

“But not yet,” he says, like Dean hasn’t said a thing. “I’ve gone decades. I’ll go longer.”

It occurs to him that he may never see his little brother’s eyes again, and Dean hardly manages to keep it together. “Please look at me, Sammy. I swear I’m your brother.”

“I don’t have a brother,” Sam says, distracted. “That was just a nice dream I had once.”

_______________________________________________________________

Dean hears something shatter, a loud cry from the bathroom, and his heart stops in his chest. Sam had been fine a few seconds ago when he’d passed by the door, trying not to be obvious in checking up on his brother.

“Sammy?” Dean asks, pushing the door the rest of the way open.

The mirror is in shards, half of them buried in his brother’s hand, and Sam is sitting on the bathroom floor, bleeding and making injured sounds.

“Fuck, Sam, what did you do?” Dean asks.

“I almost saw you,” he says, out of breath. “I almost looked at you in the mirror.” He smiles proudly, drawing his hand closer to his chest, almost hugging it. “I made it go away.”

“Sam, no,” Dean chastises. “Dammit, no no no, you could have really hurt yourself. You _did_ really hurt yourself.”

Sam smiles, head falling back lazily, and raises his hand. “Nothing,” he says. “Don’t worry, Dean, I didn’t look.”

“I wish you would,” he snaps, taking Sam’s wrist and drawing the hand close enough to inspect. “This isn’t nothing.”

It’s not as bad as it looks. Dean knows how to judge wounds by now. This one won’t leave much damage; it’s not the end of the world. Dean can get the glass out, and Sam only got big pieces stuck where they’d just draw blood. Luckily, Sam didn’t hit any crucial arteries or veins and there’s nothing hard to fish out. Still, he’s more shaken up than Sam is, clutches his brother.

“Nothing,” Sam echoes.

Dean stands up, helping Sam to his feet. Eyes closed, Sam navigates his way out of the room, not cutting his feet on broken edges by pure luck. He sits on the bed and submits to Dean’s help, lets him bandage up the cuts almost as if it’s just for Dean’s sake.

“Who are you?” he asks as Dean wraps his hand in gauze.

“I’m your brother, Sam. It’s Dean.”

“No,” Sam says. “But you’re not like the angel, either. He’s not as good at pretending.” Sam’s lips shake. “I wish you weren’t so good at pretending.”

“I liked you better when you didn’t talk,” Dean says bitterly.

Bobby tells Dean where to stick his apologies about the mirror, but he isn’t able to play off his concerns for Sam as easily as he dismisses the property damage.

Dean figures it’s better for everyone if Bobby doesn’t have to be a part of their mess, so they say their farewells and go back to wandering aimlessly the next day. It’s what they know, and the upheaval is somehow more soothing to both of them than staying centered.

_______________________________________________________________

Dean wakes up, feeling something moving over his skin. He opens his eyes, slowly comes to the realization that it’s Sam’s fingers touching him. Sam’s face is turned away, but the touch is smooth and intimate, and Dean flushes, remembering when Sam touching him was a regular thing.

“Sammy?” he says quietly, trying not to spook his brother. “What’re you doing?”

Sam tries to draw his hands away, but Dean catches his wrists.

“I was just…” he says, voice shaking. “I don’t remember what you look like.”

Dean brings Sam’s fingers to his lips, presses them to the tip of each one. “Sam…”

“Please, don’t ask me. I can’t help myself.”

Dean’s not really above it, not really above anything to get his brother back. He’s thought of trying dirty tricks, things Sam hadn’t even pulled when he had no soul—getting Sam so drunk he’d forget the instinct to look away or asking just after Sam wakes up from his nightmares, when he needs Dean there to comfort him.

Dean hasn’t resisted out of decency, just knows Sam will wake up the next day convinced it was a dream, another ploy to make him look, and it’ll make him stop trusting Dean all over again. Sam has to make the choice, Dean knows that instinctively, or it won’t stick. But Dean’s about an hour and a half from going crazy over this.

“Don’t look then,” he says despite himself. “Come here.” Dean moves over in bed, makes room for his brother to slide in. Sam hesitates. “Come on, Sammy. I could use a little help sleeping.”

Sam wraps around him for a few hours, and does it again every night after. He doesn’t scream as much when they’re together. Dean knows how to read his body language, can tell on instinct what to do to help his brother. He knows when Sam’s turned on, when he should back off for both their sakes. He knows when Sam’s scared, when he should draw his little brother in even closer. He knows when Sam’s far away, stuck somewhere awful where Dean can’t reach him, where Dean’s actions can’t reach him, and he can hold Sam however he damn well pleases.

It’s not the first time Dean’s had to live off table scraps.

Sometimes he wakes up, not because Sam’s having a nightmare, but because Sam’s not sleeping at all. He doesn’t talk much during the day, doesn’t give Dean enough to go on, but when he thinks Dean is asleep, he pours his heart out. Dean hears things he doesn’t really want to know.

“I don’t know why they’re letting me keep you,” Sam says gently one night, playing with the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck. “They never let us be like this. Better than when I look at you, sure, but this…this is…”

Sam presses his mouth to Dean’s back, and Dean has to fight every instinct to keep his muscles relaxed, not give it away that he’s wide awake.

“Look what they let me do to you, Dean.” He kisses Dean again. “I’m so close to happy,” he adds, like it’s the worst news he’s every delivered. “God, Dean, I’m getting used to this, and I’m so happy.” He wraps his arms around Dean and squeezes so tight Dean’s ribs ache on every inhale. “I’m so scared of what they’re gonna do to you when I finally fuck this up.”

Another night, Dean wakes up with Sam practically lying on top of him, arms and legs splayed out protectively. He’s promising to protect Dean, swearing he won’t let them get him. Dean reaches up and runs a hand up and down Sam’s thigh until Sam falls asleep, and Dean can push Sam to the side just enough to breathe.

“I had this dream,” he tells Dean more than once. “Not a nightmare. A dream. I don’t know why they let me dream. Maybe they can’t stop me. I don’t think they can. They would have stopped this one.”

Dean holds his breath so he doesn’t ask what it was about.

“I heard someone telling me you needed me, Dean. It sounded like…me,” he says with a wispy laugh. “And they sounded so worried—I was so worried about you that I followed them. I came back for you. They tried to stop me, but I couldn’t stay just because they wanted me to. It was more important to…” Sam yawns and presses his face to the crook of Dean’s neck. “It was a really good dream.”

_______________________________________________________________

Dean gets sick; Sam takes care of him. It’s kind of pathetic, being knocked out by some common flu when Sam’s got Hell to deal with. But Sam seems to enjoy himself, smiles like a child the first time Dean wakes up to find soup waiting by his bedside—cold, but good—and Sam tells him he went out all on his own, just to get Dean something healthy.

Sam sits by his side for days, running his hand over Dean’s clammy forehead, until Dean is better and they go back to their usual roles. Still, it’s a relief to see Sam can take charge when he has to. Dean knows he can get better; the key is in Sam letting it happen.

On Dean’s birthday, he begs Sam to look, promises that’s all he wants. It’s not a surprise that it doesn’t work—Sam’s never been the one to give up everything on birthdays. Sam cries for hours that night, apologizes long after Dean’s let the subject drop, swears it’s better if he doesn’t do it. Dean hates himself a lot for bringing it up, feels like he’s being let off some hook when the clock strikes twelve and the damn day is finally over.

_______________________________________________________________

Sam sits, staring out at space, silent tears streaming down his face. Dean takes the spot next to him on the couch and rubs his thigh soothingly, trying to bring him back.

“Sammy,” he whispers against Sam’s ear.

“It hurts,” Sam says.

“What hurts?”

“They’re hurting me.”

“Shh, no, no it doesn’t. They’re gone now. They can’t hurt you.”

“Make it stop, Dean.”

“How, Sam? Tell me what to do.”

It feels wrong having to ask. Dean used to be good for something, used to know how to help Sam. He thinks back on the stupid, suicidal lengths he’s gone to in order to make sure Sam never hurt.

Sam laughs, but there’s not an atom of humor in it. “Dean wouldn’t have to ask. That’s how I know you’re not him.”

Dean bites his lip. Not good enough. He’s not good enough, and sometimes he’s pretty sure he’ll never be good enough. “Sam, I’ll do anything. But I don’t know what else to do.”

“Anything,” Sam murmurs. “Anything.”

“Come on, man. Come back, alright? The fucking angels can’t get you anymore.”

“If I look at you,” Sam says slowly, almost a teasing tone. “Will you let me kiss you?”

“A million times, Sam,” he promises. “Forever.”

Sam looks down at his lap, and Dean wonders if he gave the wrong answer. The thought makes him sick, because if Sam doesn’t want—if Sam never wanted…Dean never thought he was forcing his brother.

“Never again, Sam. Not if you don’t want me to, I won’t ever.”

Sam freezes. “You’ve never said that before.”

“What?”

“That’s…that’s what Dean would have…” Sam looks up, and Dean sees his eyelids fighting to stay closed. “I’ve been waiting years, and you never got that right.”

“Sam, open up.”

Sam does, immediately cries out and covers his face with his hands. “Oh God, what did I do?”

Dean pries his hands away, can’t help the smirk taking over his face. “Nothing, you idiot.”

Sam stops mid-freak out. He sits up, opens his eyes all the way, and stares at Dean like Dean has just sprouted a second head. Probably, Sam would be less surprised to see that.

He reaches out, presses his hand over Dean’s cheek, and in moments Sam is touching him all over with two big palms, inspecting for damage that doesn’t exist.

“You’re okay,” he points out.

“Well, relatively speaking.”

“You’re okay,” he says again, a little louder. Giddy. Dean hasn’t seen those dimples in…well, it feels like years.

“No shit, brainiac.”

Sam kisses him hard. It’s not even really a kiss, just mouth-on-lips, but Dean’s not complaining. He opens up to it, waits for Sam to deepen it, lets Sam choose when to pull away.

“You’re real,” he whispers, resting his forehead on Dean’s.

Dean’s perfectly content saying, “I told ya so.”

_______________________________________________________________

Dean wants to pretend he wasn’t naïve enough to think Sam will be okay just because he’ll look, but a part of him falls for the trap when he watches Sam finally let his muscles go. Dean realizes he’s been tensing them for weeks now. No wonder he’s been feeling phantom pains, Dean thinks.

Sam falls asleep that night before Dean does and is out cold through the night. Dean wakes up before him, goes out to get coffee and comes home to find Sam has rediscovered the creepy blank look Dean had kind of hoped they’d moved past.

Sam’s eyes dodge to him as soon as he’s through the door, and Dean inwardly heaves a sigh of relief. “Breakfast?” he offers.

“If this was all true,” Sam says without prologue, “the dreams were true, too, weren’t they?”

“I…what?”

“The nightmares, Dean. The nightmares I’ve been having. Please tell me they’re not real.”

“Hell, right? Lucifer and Michael? They’re gone, Sam, remember? It wasn’t ever real.”

“No. Not them. I thought it was them. I thought they were playing with me.”

“They were.”

“No, not if I’ve been here for months.”

“You’re just remembering—”

“Yes. Remembering.”

“Hell,” Dean finishes.

“No, not Hell.” Sam shakes his head. “I don’t have to be asleep to have that nightmare, Dean.”

Dean flinches.

“Did I come back? Was I really up here all that time?”

“Not you. No.”

Sam looks at his reaction and his face collapses. “Oh, God, I was.”

“Sam, you were down—”

“I really did those things.”

“No.” Dean rushes forward, placing the coffee forgotten on Sam’s bed stand and turning Sam to face him.

“I was proud of them.”

“It wasn’t you.”

“It was all me,” Sam says. “That’s who I really am. I’m gonna be sick.”

Dean brushes a thumb over Sam’s cheek, and Sam seizes his hands. “You shouldn’t touch me. I—I let them turn you.”

“Sam, I’m not saying it again.”

“You should hate me.”

“Dude.”

“And all those people before I even came to you—I killed those people.”

“I don’t wanna hear it, man.”

“Nice little old lady,” Sam says, voice weak. “I used her as bait.”

“Stop it.”

Sam stands up and runs to the bathroom, doesn’t show his face again for so long that Dean finally goes in after him. He finds Sam sitting up against the bathtub with one of their hunting knives in his hand. He’s looking down at the tip. He looks…like the fucking thing is trying to seduce him, and he’s just hardly resisting.

“Give me that right now,” Dean snaps.

Sam looks up at him. “I’m sorry, Dean. I thought I was a good person under everything. Turns out I’m even worse than we thought.”

“Don’t you start ‘we’-ing me, you little shit, give me the knife.”

“I don’t want to,” Sam says, looking at the weapon with enough fear for Dean to hope he won’t go through with it. Then he looks up at Dean with glossy eyes. “I’m supposed to get rid of monsters, right?”

“Sammy, think of what it’ll do to me.” He kneels next to Sam. “Think of your brother.”

Sam meets his eyes, steely look of determination, and the longest minute of Dean’s life passes before he drops the blade.

Dean snatches it away. “Don’t you ever—”

“You should want me dead,” Sam tells him.

“Look, Sam, that thing wasn’t you, okay? I spent months with it, and it was the farthest thing from you I’ve ever…”

Dean trails off, shocked by how much he means it. He pictures Lucifer wearing Sam’s face—even then there was an undercurrent of too much emotion. Even Lucifer had something driving him, instead of the cool, removed, dead expression Sam had worn all those months he was in Hell and Dean was stuck with his copy. Sam doesn’t want to hear that, of course, not after everything Lucifer’s done to him. But that doesn’t make the terrifying fact any less true.

“Take my word for it, alright? I know my brother when I see him.”

Sam takes a deep breath and collapses against Dean. “I don’t want to dream about him anymore, Dean.”

Dean rubs his hand on Sam’s back and kisses the crown of his little brother’s head. “We’ll get there,” he promises. “I’ll get you there eventually.”

“Promise,” Sam says. “Promise even if it’s not true.”

“It’s true, Sammy. You just gotta let it be.”

Sam nods against his chest. “I trust you,” he says. “I think I trust you.”

They take baby steps back to bed from the bathroom. They take baby steps through the memories, Sam telling Dean the things that keep him up at night, Dean countering with the times Sam did the right thing, even without a conscience to force him. They take baby steps through the next few weeks, until Sam can do just fine on his own, but neither of them sees the point of exploiting that. Back to the usual programming.

There are falls, too—so many Dean loses count—but Sam learns to walk again, improves every day. Eventually, Dean knows Sam will be as close to healthy as either of them has a chance of being. And if anything is worth working for, well, that’s fucking it.


End file.
